


Impeditio

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Honey Honey [16]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Nightmares, Recovery, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sleep Paralysis, Steve Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers Has PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 01:12:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16882794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: “Was it me?” Steve asks, and James’ anxiety subsides a little. “Did I, was it me, I woke you?”“No,” James says, walks towards him a little. “I just woke up. I’m starting to think I can only manage a full night when you’re in bed with me - what’s up, what happened?”The hood, and the big black oval of shadow on Steve’s shoulders, shifts a little. It’s not quite a shake of the head, but it’s close enough as he turns away again.“PTSD,” he says, too easily, though his voice is slow and calculated, like he’s not sure how normal he sounds.





	Impeditio

**Author's Note:**

> Recovery takes time, there are often setbacks. In case some of the tags worry you, this is an installment where Steve has a bad day.

James wakes in the middle of the night to find that he’s alone. 

It’s not as strange as it could be, given that he’s dating an Avenger, but any Assemble alarm would have woken James, too, so it’s not like Steve’s been pulled away on duty.

“Jarvis?” he says, sitting up in the dark. “Can you put the lights on please? And let me know where Steve is?” 

_“Certainly, Sir,”_ Jarvis answers, and the soft yellow lights come up around him. _“The Commander is currently in the kitchen area.”_

“Thanks,” James says, and he pushes the covers down and tries to locate his boxers. 

He’s got no idea where they are, so he grabs Steve’s instead and hikes them up. Steve might be built like a tank but his waist is teeny-tiny-sexy and James can fit into his boxers with no trouble, even if he’d have to turn up Steve’s trousers to have any chance of sharing them without falling flat on his face immediately. 

He grabs his bathrobe, too, and ties the belt as he walks to the kitchen.

Steve looks like something out of an old painting, dressed in sweats and his hoodie, standing stock still with his back to James under the one spotlight that’s on, near to the sink. There’s something off about him, too, though James can’t see his face. 

“Steve?” he says and, for a long few moments, Steve doesn’t move.

James is on the verge of asking again when Steve turns slowly, more of a shuffle really, and looks at him. At least, James thinks Steve is looking at him - he’s certainly facing James’ way, but the hood is up so it’s hard to tell. Actually, James has a moment of anxiety - that certainly stands like Steve and is shaped like Steve but he doesn’t actually know it-

“Was it me?” Steve asks, and James’ anxiety subsides a little. “Did I, was it me, I woke you?”

“No,” James says, walks towards him a little. “I just woke up. I’m starting to think I can only manage a full night when you’re in bed with me - what’s up, what happened?”

The hood, and the big black oval of shadow on Steve’s shoulders, shifts a little. It’s not quite a shake of the head, but it’s close enough as he turns away again.

“PTSD,” he says, too easily, though his voice is slow and calculated, like he’s not sure how normal he sounds.

James frowns, walks a little closer still.

“It’s funny,” Steve says, “I know better than to think I’m past it. That’s not how recovery works - it’s not linear. I know that.”

“Still blindsides you, though?” James asks, and Steve nods.

“Yeah,” he says, and he sounds tired in a way that, James realizes, probably has very little to do with the amount of sleep he’s managed to get. “Yeah, it does.”

“You want a hug?” James asks, and Steve rolls one shoulder in a shrug.

“In a minute,” he says, and then he holds out a hand out horizontally. For a second, James thinks Steve’s about to make the ‘so-so’ gesture for some reason, but then he notices what Steve’s actually showing him - that his hand is trembling. “I’m still a little shook up, I need a couple more minutes.”

James nods, leans on the breakfast island.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“ _Jesus,_ no,” Steve says. “I don’t wanna put the images in your head. My memory’s photographic now, you know that?”

James nods, then says “yeah,” because Steve is not-looking at him again.

“Well human brains ain’t equipped for that, not really, not to the serum’s level,” Steve continues. “So the serum keeps everything in there, and my brain compartmentalizes. I can remember everything, but it might take me a second or two to recall.” Like when Steve found out his name and James was trying to tell him about his grandfather, James realizes. It took Steve a second but then his recollection was word-perfect. “Except sometimes at night the walls don’t work as well as they usually do and stuff seeps through. And I gotta tell you, the stuff from a war? Yeah, no, I’m not puttin’ that on you.”

“I can take it,” James says, but Steve shakes his head.

“No you can’t,” he says, “and I’m not being patronizing, James, I’m saying this was literally the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and I’ve seen a _lot_. It makes up a good half of all my nightmares. I don’t want to put the image in your head, and I’d like to stop thinking about it.”

James sighs softly in sympathy.

“Was it Bucky?”

“Not originally,” Steve answers, much to James’ surprise. “But you know how the mind likes to twist-” he stops, presses his hand to his mouth. “I might throw up,” he says, and James walks around the breakfast island and stands a little closer. “Threw up when it happened.”

“I’m here if you want to talk,” he says, and Steve shakes his head.

“No,” he says. 

James lifts one cautious hand and settles it in the middle of Steve’s back, starts rubbing in slow, firm circles. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. “I…have bad days. Less often now but…”

“We all have bad days,” James says. “It’s just that you’ve had worse ones to come back and bite you.”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. “Maybe.”

James stands there for a while, with Steve, the only sound that of his skin over the soft fabric of Steve’s hoodie. 

“Do you,” he says, “uh, you wanna go back to bed?”

And Steve looks at James over his shoulder then. James is close enough now that his eyes have adjusted, that he can see the hollow, haunted look in Steve’s eyes, the expression on his face. He certainly looks nauseated, that’s for sure.

“I don’t think so,” Steve says. “I don’t think I’ll stop seeing it for a little while.”

James nods.

“That’s okay,” he says. “Was it someone you knew?”

“Not well,” Steve says. “But yes. Allied. I shot him.”

James frowns, feels his heart rate kick up a little, feels the hair begin to pull itself upright on the back of his neck.

“You shot him?” 

That doesn’t sound like Steve.

“I had-” Steve whispers, voice thick, “-to put him out…mercy. It was mercy. Kindness. Before it got to-” He ducks his head, eyes squeezed shut as his shoulders hunch inward. “It was the only thing we could do for him.”

James nods, _that_ sounds like Steve, and keeps rubbing circles.

“You want that hug?” he says, and Steve turns immediately, moving all at once to get into James’ space.

“Yeah,” he breathes, nodding a lot. “Yeah.”

Steve’s hoodie is open, it’s the one with the zipper, so James gets one hand inside, around Steve’s waist, and then the other inside the hood, on the back of Steve’s head. Steve puts his face down on James’ shoulder immediately bending his spine sharply because of how tall he is, and wraps his arms around James, too. He’s still shaking a little. James can _hear_ the tags clattering.

“Forty two,” he says, “and I’m still up in the middle of the night-”

“Hey,” James says, firm though kind, and he lifts his head enough to speak directly into Steve’s ear. “That’s my boyfriend you’re talkin’ shit about.”

Steve laughs a little too happily - it’s not hysterical, but it’s not normal either - and rubs his face against James’ shoulder. 

“I know,” he says. “I know it ain’t fair. I know it ain’t my fault.” He lifts his head again, looks around the darkened living space, and James lets his hand drop to Steve’s shoulder. “That’s not really what I mean. I just…” He huffs a laugh, a small, sad little thing, and James sees that rueful expression as Steve scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m forty-two and it still won’t stop.”

James just moves his hands on Steve, over his shoulder and back, at his waist and up his spine. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Steve shakes his head. 

“ ‘S okay,” he says. “Recovery isn’t linear, trauma doesn’t heal instantly, all that jazz. It was a war. It’s just frustrating. But I’ll…I’ll talk to my therapist about it, I’ll…probably call Sam in the morning, I won’t be sleeping and it’s just dangerous to on duty after that, so. Yeah.”

“I’m not working,” James says, settling his hands at the small of Steve’s back. “We can stay up tonight, I’ll make you hot chocolate, we can curl up on the couch. Make out if you want, I can put the TV on if you don’t.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, eyes still distant, as he stares at the darkened room and - probably - doesn’t see any of it. Then he nods, looks down. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

***

Sam comes down from the Avengers floor and talks to Steve quietly in the living room by the time it gets to about ten in the morning.

They did stay up all night - James fell asleep once or twice, but Steve had the TV on and was staring through it. He’s got a thousand-yard stare that stretches back a century, nothing’s going to stop him seeing all sorts of horrors, that’s for sure. Not therapy, not James, that’s just how it is. But, he said, the TV helped. The hot chocolate helped. Having James pressed up against him helped, kissing him for a little while, holding him for another little while, it all made a difference though the difference is small to something so big, and now, like anyone else who’s had a sleepless night, he’s on the couch, under a blanket, half-awake and mumbling because he’s too tired to raise his head or his voice.

“Wasn’t the train,” he says, “or the crash. Not this time.”

“Tank again?” Sam asks, and James frowns but Steve nods, stares at the blanket over his knees.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “I just couldn’t go back to bed after. I didn’t- The paralysis was bad this time. Really bad, I…couldn’t breathe out of it. I couldn’t _try_ , I was just panicking too hard.”

James pushes down the twinge of, yeah okay, jealousy that Steve’s told Sam but won’t tell him. Firstly, he’s got no idea whatsoever when Steve told Sam. It could have been ten years ago. And, secondly, even though Steve sees a trained therapist now, James knows he used to go to Sam with his problems. Before Steve had a breakdown and Sam put his foot down. So Sam knowing might even be a remnant of that. Because if Steve woke from a nightmare, alone, and only had Sam to call? Well, Steve was a different guy, years ago. 

Maybe he knows not to traumatize James with it because he already traumatized Sam with it.

“That’s okay,” Sam says, reaching out to take Steve’s hand, squeezing his fingers. “It’s a’ight, man, you take today. Tomorrow if you need it. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, looks at Sam, shakes his head. “It’s shit, and I’m sorry.”

Sam shakes his head.

“It’s okay,” he says. “You can grab a day off the other shift next week, that sound good to you?”

Steve nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Who’s covering me?” 

“Teddy,” Sam says. “He’ll shift into you if we have to go on TV.”

Steve makes a noise through his nose that might have been a laugh if he’d smiled. James is vaguely aware that there’s a shape-shifter on one of the teams.

“Thank him for me?” Steve says. “I’m…” he shakes his head again. “I ain’t good for a damn thing today.”

“That’s just fine,” Sam says, and he stands up again, drops his hand to Steve’s shoulder. “Might come around for dinner tonight, I’ll order in. You feel like Mexican?”

“American,” Steve says. “Thanks.”

Sam nods.

“Any time,” he says. “I promised.”

Steve makes his face imitate a smile, but allows it to drop a moment later. 

“You good with American?” Sam says, pointing at James. “Burgers, fried chicken, fries, that stuff?”

James nods.

“Yeah,” he says, “thanks. Want anything to eat or drink before you go?” 

Sam looks James up and down, smiles.

“Naw,” he says, “but thanks. I’ll see you both tonight.”

And then he leaves. 

Steve doesn’t move, not at all, until James comes and sits back down with him, with a fresh hot chocolate for both of them. He puts both on coasters on the coffee table, though, because he’s not sure Steve’s up to holding it steady.

“How you feelin’?” he asks, and Steve tilts his head a little.

“Better’n last night,” he says, “but cold. Tired. Those go together.”

James nods.

“That’s okay,” he says. “Uh…Listen, you know you said paralysis?”

“Sleep paralysis,” Steve answers, without any further prompting. “I don’t hallucinate, thank God, I just…can’t move. Couldn’t move. Took me a long time to get up, to wake up and I…hate…I hate it. I’ve always had it, ever since I was a kid - didn’t know what it was then. Glad I know now.”

“You saw a doctor?”

“Clint,” Steve answers, shaking his head. “Clint saw me having trouble one afternoon and just sorta…talked me awake. Taught me some breathing exercises. I just…I remembered I should be doin’ ‘em last night I just…couldn’t…stop panicking enough to start. I kept falling back into the nightmare and my blood was poundin’ so…strong when I woke up. It was - I though my eardrums were gonna burst, they were ringing and buzzing and I thought I was gonna bust both and go deaf.”

“Shit,” James says. “Adrenaline, right? It happen a lot?”

“No,” Steve says “Never did, ‘s just bad when it does. Usually I’m better at pushing myself out but I couldn’t. I couldn’t. Do you know what a guy looks like,” Steve says, and then he shakes his head. “No, never mind, I’m not doing that,” he says. “I’m not doing that to you. Jesus, I should sleep.”

James cuddles up to him because he wants to, because he doesn’t really have another way of providing comfort. He’s sideways on to Steve, and that means Steve can’t really hold him in return, but he does lean into James. 

“You can sleep,” James says. “Can Jarvis look out for signs of sleep paralysis?” 

Steve goes very still, and then turns his head. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “Can you, Jarvis?”

There’s a slight pause.

_“I have examined the security logs from last night, and consulted several sources on the manifestations of sleep paralysis. While you are within the confines of the tower, I should be able to recognize the outward signs of sleep paralysis in you, Commander. Shall I construct a warming program?”_

“Yeah,” James answers for him. “Yeah, if it happens, wake us up. Like, wake me up if I’m here.”

_“Is this acceptable, Commander?”_

Steve nods, looks at James.

“Yeah,” he says. “Never occurred to me. It only happens every six months or so, God. Never occurred to me, yeah, that’d be great if you could wake me.”

 _“Parameters accepted,”_ Jarvis answers. _“I will endeavor to wake you should the need arise.”_

“Thanks, Jarvis,” James says, looking straight at Steve, who’s looking back. 

_“You’re most welcome, Sir,”_ Jarvis answers.

~

Steve goes to sleep shortly after he’s finished his hot chocolate. He considered leaving it, but James insisted. After a night like Steve’s had, he could do with reasonable blood sugar, at the very least - and he certainly hadn’t felt like eating. 

James even managed to convince Steve to go back to bed. It wasn’t like Steve wouldn’t go until James promised to go with him, but Steve looked a lot less anxious once James said he’d go too - after all, neither of them slept really. 

James asks Jarvis to black out the windows, to let them know when it’s getting towards the end of the day so they can be up again for Sam, and to keep an eye on them. Then they settle down under the covers again. James is cold from the lack of sleep, and Steve keeps tucking his hands up his sleeves, so James isn’t surprised when he fits them together and ducks his head against James’ shoulder. 

James just strokes Steve’s skull over the hoodie and tries not to marvel at how small Steve can make himself when he really wants to. James will always be smaller than him, that’s certain, but Steve somehow manages to compact himself into the kind of shape that’s easy to hold onto. 

James can’t blame him.

***

James wakes a couple of hours later, when Steve has rolled away from him. The bed is warm and it’s only been a little while, so James reaches out for his tablet on the nightstand, turning the screen brightness down as far as it’ll go, and he sets about checking his messages, watching muted videos, playing a game or two.

Steve, who’s sprawled on his back with his head turned away, tangled up in his clothes and breathing slowly and steadily, doesn’t move for a good long time, maybe an hour, maybe slightly more. 

The thing about nightmares is, James has seen any number of films where there’s a bunch of moaning and groaning, furrowed brows and flexing fingers, tossing and turning and then a half-strangled cry as the protagonist sits bolt upright, gasping.

Steve isn’t a movie. 

One minute, James is lying there in silence, checking his messages and then, the next, Steve gasps sharply beside him, and that’s how Steve wakes from his nightmare. In fact, that gasp on waking is the only reason James knows something’s up. 

But, before James has a chance to stop what he’s doing to ask if Steve’s okay, Steve’s pushing himself upright, tags clattering, grabbing James’ tablet and slamming it face-down into the covers halfway down the bed, and then grabbing James’ wrist hard enough to hurt.

“Hey!” James squawks, just about able to see Steve in the gloom, but Steve doesn’t look at him.

“Shh!” he says, looking in the direction of the blacked out windows, breathing hard. “Why’d they stop?” he whispers, and James uses his free hand to grab Steve’s where it’s grasping his other wrist.

“Ow,” he says. “Steve-”

“Shut _up_ ,” Steve answers, whispering still, “why the _hell’d_ they _stop?_ ”

James shakes his head, tries to prise Steve’s fingers off his wrist.

“Steve-”

“No. No, we gotta get outta here, Bucky,” he says, and his voice is low and serious and leaves no room for argument, and James kind of grinds to a halt where he’s sitting in the bed. Bucky? “Sirens don’t just stop like that, ‘thout even an all-clear,” Steve’s voice says, but James’ chest is getting sore, his eyes are stinging, he wets his lips and fights back the overwhelming sensation of pity that bubbles up inside of him, the knowledge of the huge wave of sadness Steve is going to feel when he realizes, “Buck, we gotta-”

“Jarvis?” James says.

Steve’s head whips around in the dark, and it hurts James’ throat to say it, hurts his heart to say it, too, because he’s pulling Steve out of this, he’s yanking Steve back into a reality that doesn’t have Bucky Barnes in it any more.

 _“Jarvis?”_ Steve says, as though he doesn’t understand, and then the blackout drops from the windows and floods the room with the orange-gold autumn afternoon, and James, James blinks in the sudden light, the sudden glare of the day from such a well-simulated night.

But Steve doesn’t blink at all, big, black pupils narrowing to pinpricks in a moment. 

He stares, mouth agape, confused and incredulous and horrified all at once.

James sees his mouth make a _Buh_ shape, and then he flushes red, lips pressed together, chest heaving, and looks down at where he’s got James’ wrist in the vise of his fingers. He lets go like James is burning him, probably seeing it for the first time only then.

“Christ,” he whispers. 

James rubs at his wrist with his other hand, shaking his head. He wants to tell Steve it’s okay, wants to let Steve know that he understands this kind of thing happens, he gets that things like this are more likely when you’ve had such a bad day as Steve. But instead, all he can hear is Steve calling him Bucky. Twice. He can’t decide if he hurts more for being mistaken or more for Steve having made the mistake.

“Are you alright?” Steve says, without looking at James. 

He’s more sort of looking at James’ knee, jaw clenched so hard James is a little worried about his teeth.

“I’m okay, Steve,” he says, even though he might get a red mark from that grip. 

It wasn’t enough to damage, but it was definitely enough to be insistent. Enough to say _this is an emergency._ And, what’s worse, he can see a few things on Steve’s face.

Anger. Shame. Concern.

Disappointment. 

“Steve,” James says, but Steve shakes his head.

“I,” he says, turns his head away. “I think I need…to…call my therapist.”

James chews his lower lip for a second but leans forward across the space that’s opened up between them, covers Steve’s hand with his and kisses Steve’s cheek. Steve lets him, but doesn’t move to make it easier.

“Okay,” James says, and Steve nods tightly, shoves back the covers, and walks out of the bedroom.

James watches him go and waits until Steve is probably in the living room before he flops back down into the pillows.

“Jarvis?” he says quietly. “If he’s not busy, can you put me through to Sam Wilson?”

~

Sam’s really good about it. 

It’s not the first time Steve’s mistaken someone next to him for Bucky, Sam says. 

_“He even did it with me, once, if you can believe that,”_ he says over the line, and James tries not to sniff. _“I can think of a couple times I’ve almost called him Riley when I’ve been mostly-asleep.”_

“He,” James says, and then he’s not sure Sam’s the right person to say this to.

Sam allows the pause to linger for a few moments, and then says,

_“Yeah?”_

And James hates himself a little for this, hates himself a little that, when he’s faced with this, and Steve, there's only one thing he fixates on.

“He was disappointed,” James says. “When he realized.”

There is another long pause, that stretches on in a way that makes James’ stomach twist, and then Sam sighs.

 _“It’s difficult,”_ Sam says, _“I know you know this. But it’s…not that he was disappointed it was you.”_

“I know,” James says. “He was just disappointed I wasn’t Bucky.”

_“You ever lost anyone, James?”_

“I know,” James answers. “I know, God, I know. If my Gramma showed up and spoke to me and then somebody turned a light on and it turned out to be my aunt or something…I know. It just…” James shuts his eyes to stop them stinging. “I can’t help. And he, Sam, he was so…he was _so_ sad.”

None of the ruefulness, the self-deprecation, none of the carefully controlled understanding of his own psyche. Just sadness. Absolute despondency. James had never seen so much grief in Steve’s eyes, not when James said grace on their first date, not when Steve found out James’ full name. 

_“Yeah,”_ Sam says. _“But it’ll be a’ight, man, I know it ain’t easy now but…”_ He sighs again. _“He gonna make a date with his therapist?”_

“That’s what he said he was leaving to do now,” James says, “yeah.”

 _“Good,”_ Sam says. _“Good. You still want me to hang around for dinner tonight?”_

“Yeah,” James answers, nodding even though Sam can’t see him. “Yeah, I think we could both use the company.”

 _“That’s good too,”_ Sam says. _“Smart. You still okay with American?”_

“Yeah,” James says. “What time should we expect you?”

_“Man, it’s…what, three now? I’ll show up six-thirty, seven. With food, so don’t order.”_

James rubs his knees for lack of something else to do with his hands. 

“Thanks, Sam,” he says. “I really, we, we both-”

 _“I know, kid,”_ Sam says, _“’Cause you and jackass know a good thing when you see one,”_ and James laughs, swipes his hand under his nose. _“See you in a couple hours.”_

And James bids him a fond bye-for-now and looks around. Steve hasn’t come back, but James has no idea how long setting up an appointment with his therapist will take, so he gets out of bed and walks to the living room.

Steve is on an actual cellphone, rather than communicating through Jarvis.

“Yes,” he’s saying, very quietly. “That’s fine for me, I don’t mind. We’ve got a good uplink for that.” He pauses. “Yeah, it’s the Stark satellite, you won’t have any issues. I’ll get the security system to send you an encryption patch, and then there’ll be a code that’ll follow. Is that…?” Another pause. “Yeah.” Pause. “Yeah.” Pause. “That’s right.” Another pause, during which he turns and spots James. “I’ll speak to you then.” Another pause. “Thank you.”

And then he takes his cellphone away from his ear and ends the call. 

For a moment or two, he watches the phone, as though steeling himself for the next conversation, and then he puts the phone back in his pocket and turns to James.

“Can you sit down, please?” he says, and his voice is low and serious, even in tone although James suspects that’s only because he’s working hard at it.

James sits on the couch because sometimes Steve likes it when James invades his personal space. Sometimes he even likes it when he pretends not to, although they usually have a lengthy conversation about it first. This is not like either of those situations. 

“Do you need ice?” he says.

James shakes his head.

“Nope,” he says, showing Steve his wrist. “Not even a bruise.”

Steve looks at him for a long moment.

“I’m going to talk to my therapist shortly, we’ll talk via video link in my office. I won’t be in your way, if you want to stay.”

“Steve,” James says, leaning forward a little.

“No, listen,” he says. “I’m…not doing well. I’m going to talk to someone professional and you don’t have to be here for the next couple of days if you don’t want. You’re welcome to stay if you do, I just…I’m. Sorry.”

James shakes his head.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says, and Steve shakes his head too.

“I know that,” he says, “not intentionally. But you…” he swallows hard. “I really hoped something like this wouldn’t happen but here we are.”

James isn’t sure _what_ that means. 

“You’re not tough to mistake for him. You know? It’s obvious now, of course it’s obvious - you’re not him. But I swear to God, I thought we were in the middle of an air raid and there you were and it all made sense in my head and then you were him.”

James sighs through his nose, tries not to look as sad as he feels.

“I know,” he says, and it hurts his throat again, makes him sad on the inside. “I…know that you still…you still love him.”

“I’ll always love him,” Steve says. “But you understand that I love you too. Don’t you?”

James frowns. He does, of course he does. 

“I’ll make it up to you,” Steve says, his voice devoid of emotion, presumably because James didn’t immediately say yes, and James holds up a hand, then presses both hands to his face as Steve continues. “I didn’t mean to call you…to call you…

James doesn’t mean for his eyes to well up with tears. 

He knows a few things about Bucky Barnes, from what Steve’s told him. He knows that Steve and Bucky weren’t together long, knows that they held back once they reached Europe. He knows Steve lost a best friend, a brother, and a husband, all at once, in the blink of an eye. He knows Steve had no-one but Bucky Barnes, then had no-one, and then crashed a plane into ice and lost everything, _everything_ , except his life.

He knows that, for a long while, Steve wished he’d lost that, too.

James wishes he could take it back for Steve, he wishes he could make it all go away, take the pain and the trauma and the demons that sharpen their claws and dig in and hold on and just stop all of it, stop Steve hurting and mourning and waking up in the middle of the night and mistaking people for other people, and having bad days and hard missions and fears. 

“I’m sorry,” James says. “I’m sorry I can’t be-”

“No,” Steve says. “Don’t, James. I don’t want you to be him, I don’t want _anyone_ to be him, nobody else _could_ be. I love him, but I don’t want you to think that he’s who you need to be in order for me to love you.”

Steve is so calm about this, so careful, his voice so low, his gaze so steady. It’s unnerving, unsettling. Steve should be panicking or shouting or angry or _something_ but, instead, he’s standing there as though they’re talking about what to have for dinner, what to watch on TV.

“That’s not what I mean,” James says, “but I don’t- Listen, it’s not about me right now. Okay?”

Steve doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

“I called you the wrong name,” he says, and James feels his throat close up. 

Because that’s why it’s so sad, isn’t it? That’s not what happened at all. “You weren’t callin’ me his name, you were _talkin’ to him,_ and then…” James feels halfway helpless that he knows all this is true and can’t do anything about it. “Then it was just me. You were callin’ _him_ by his name and I am…I am _so sorry_ that I can’t make that better.”

Steve still doesn’t move, still doesn’t blink.

“James,” he says, “I think maybe we ought to talk about this after I’ve spoken to my therapist.”

James is halfway ready to argue - why isn’t Steve feeling something about this? Why isn’t he sad or angry or-

But, James realizes, he probably is. In fact, he definitely is, because he isn’t letting James anywhere near him. And that’s the opposite of how he behaves usually, the opposite of what he usually wants. 

“Okay,” James says, with that in mind, because he can’t think of anything else to say, and now might be a really fragile time. “O-Okay.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, and then he turns around and goes back down the corridor, to his office, and he closes the door behind him.

***

James assumes that Steve is going to take some kind of allotted time. He’ll be done in an hour or half an hour or forty-five minutes or, whatever. James figures that’s how it works, and gets ready for Steve to come back after around half an hour, and then every subsequent fifteen minutes after that.

Steve is gone for an hour and twenty minutes and, when he comes back, his hood is down but he still looks drawn and pale. 

His eyes find James after a moment and he smiles a little tightly at James as he crosses the living space to go to the kitchen area. He sets about making himself a coffee, and then leans with the small of his back against the counter.

“How’d it go?” James says, and Steve tilts his head this way and that.

“Reasonably,” Steve says. “He’s very good at what he does.”

James nods slowly.

“Are you feeling any better?”

“For a certain measure of better,” Steve answers. “Yeah.”

James nods slowly again, not really sure what that means. He also doesn’t know what to say - he’s asked how it went, he’s asked how Steve is. Short of asking how long Steve thinks he’ll be on a downer for (not that James can blame him for it at all, wow), he’s got no further conversation to make.

But it turns out he doesn’t have to.

“I have a lot of baggage,” Steve says. “And a lot of it looks like you.”

James frowns.

“Do you mean it looks like me because it’s Bucky, or do you mean it looks like me because it _is_ me?”

“It’s Bucky,” he says. “And you’re so alike, the two of you. The shape of your mouth, the way that you smile. There are differences but I still look at you sometimes and forget I’m forty-two, not twenty-six. Think it’s the thirties before it’s the twenty-twenties. It’s not for long, just for a second or two, but sometimes I wonder if I’m projecting. Hanging onto to something I oughta let go of. You know? I wonder sometimes if I’m doing something terrible to you when I should be letting you do something great with someone else.”

“You’re not leading me on,” James says. 

“Not on purpose,” Steve answers.

James feels his blood cool a few degrees. 

“So do you think we shouldn’t be doing this?” James says. “Because that’s what it sounds like.”

Steve shakes his head.

“No,” he says evenly. “But it was something I considered, so it was something I spoke to my therapist about.”

“And?” James says.

“To be perfectly honest,” Steve says, “he asked me to consider, rationally, our relationship, and my reasons for continuing it. I don’t know if you’ve ever spoken to a therapist but, far from what I originally believed, they don’t tell you what to think or feel. They encourage you to decipher what you’re already thinkin’ and feelin’, and so he talked to me and I talked about you. Amongst other things. And I worry, ‘course I do. You got his mouth, sometimes you laugh like he used to. Sometimes you say somethin’, give me a look, and there he is.”

James feels himself clench his jaw. 

“And?” he persists.

Steve frowns.

“And nothing,” he says. “You already asked me if I thought we shouldn’t be doing this and I just told you no.”

James relaxes a little, feels a little less like he’s about to be let down gently and a little more like this might be a conversation they can have and move past.

“But I do want us to discuss, and seriously consider, the fact that I carry a great deal with me, and that you will be part of my dealing with it if you want to stay with me,” Steve says. “Things like this, days like these, they pull everything up again, and there’s a lot.”

James bites his tongue. Of _course_ he wants to stay, but he’s not sure now is the time to get emotional about it. Steve is still oddly detached, talking carefully, and James wonders how long it’s going to last. Steve has every right for it to last a while, of course, but it’s such a change from how he usually is with James. It’s closer to Commander Rogers than it is to Steve and…

James wonders if it’s deliberate or accidental. He wonders if Steve has put walls up, or puts walls up, when this kind of thing happens. Then he wonders if Steve’s putting on a façade the rest of the time instead.

Then he has an epiphany.

“I want to ask you questions,” he says, because they’re in a relationship, and James can ask if he wants to - Steve always says he can.

“Of course,” Steve says, like this is a board meeting or a press conference.

“Do you love me?” 

Steve shows a little emotion then, tilts his head, frowns.

“Of course I love you,” he says.

“When you’re not having a bad day, are you just pretending to be happy with me?”

Steve looks confused by the question.

“No?” he says.

James nods.

“Okay,” he says. “Then we can discuss the rest whenever you want.”

Steve waits a few moments longer but, when it becomes evident to him that James has finished speaking, he turns back to the counter and makes a coffee for each of them.

He brings the mugs across the room and sets them down on the coffee table, but he doesn’t immediately take a seat next to James. James leans to one side to give the illusion of more room, and Steve sits down beside him.

He stares at the side of Steve’s head until Steve looks at him, and then he lifts his chin in invitation. Steve leans tilts his head a little and leans down slowly, giving James time to move if he wants - which he doesn’t - and then he kisses James, a brief press of barely-parted lips to James’ own, before he draws back. He looks at James for a few moments longer, and then settles back against the back of the couch, not quite hugging himself but definitely not open as far as his body language is concerned.

“What’s your therapist say about hugs?” James asks, and Steve looks at him again.

And then, there, finally, there’s a small turn to the corners of his lips, a slight lowering of lashes that has nothing to do with how exhausted he looks. It’s barely the ghost of a smile, but it’s there, and then James leans into him, because Steve doesn’t look ready to unfold from his tightly-wound position, and banks on his instincts being right.

Steve leans into him, too, his head resting against James’.

***

“We call it Old Steve,” Sam says, and Steve rolls his eyes.

He’s still quiet, but he’s taken to smiling a little more again, he’s a little less tense. James reaches up and pulls Steve’s arm down from the back of the couch so that it’s around his shoulders instead, snuggles into Steve’s side. 

“Old Steve was the guy who didn’t like to talk or bleed or generally accept help-”

“That’s not true, I accepted help-”

“My bad, that’s true, he’d just never ask for it.”

Steve sighs, props his head up on his hand.

“Should I be offended you like New Steve better when you’ve been friends with both Steves?” James asks wryly.

Sam waves a hand.

“Old Steve didn’t get his name ‘cause Steve changed - Old Steve was Old. He had a whole life of things he’d lived through, he had a thousand yard stare like a magnifying glass in the sun, you know what I’m sayin’? Old Steve was _ancient_ ‘cause he’d been carryin’ so much for so long-”

“Sam,” Steve says, in a way that sounds like he thinks it’s distasteful.

“Steve,” Sam says, in a way that sounds like he thinks Steve’s being overly-sensitive. 

“Old Steve had a stick up his ass-” Steve mutters. 

“Old Steve had huge physical and emotional trauma to deal with and no support network to help him with it.” Sam answers, and then he looks at James. “Old Steve shows up, you call us.”

James rests his head against Steve’s chest, feels himself relax, too - it’s nice to know he wasn’t the only one who noticed. 

“I was worried,” he says, and he says it because he wants Sam to know but also because he wants Steve to know. 

Steve turns his head and presses his mouth to the top of James’ skull.

“It’ll get better next day or two,” he says quietly. 

“Regression happens to everybody in certain situations,” Sam says. “For some people, it’s cryin’ when the fireworks’ start. For other people,” he lifts a hand in Steve’s direction, “they get a little stoic after a nightmare.”

James nods.

“I can keep an eye out for Old Steve.”

Sam nods.

“Good,” he says. “Doc say you’re good?” and Steve pulls a face.

“Doc says I’m not bad,” he answers. “There’s other shit to deal with, obviously it’s not ideal. But I’m not benched or nothin’, I just ain’t a hun’d percent.” Sam grabs a slice of pizza and Steve grabs one of the buckets of chicken, offers some to James. “Says I gotta talk to James about some shit, y’know. Make sure we’re on the same page.”

“You’re getting back that Brooklyn,” James says. “ ‘S nice.”

“Mmh,” Steve answers. “You’re okay, though?” 

“Yeah,” James says. “I’m fine. Just, y’know. Worried about you.”

Steve shakes his head, turns his body so they fit a little better.

“I’m fine, you don’t need’a worry about me. Been doin’ this years.”

“I’m’a worry anyway,” James says, and Steve nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I get that.”

“I’m gonna grab another coffee, you two need a refill?” Sam says.

Steve shakes his head and James does too, spying that Sam has a least half a cup of coffee left in his mug. Sam’s a pretty fuckin’ good guy, and James doesn’t know much about psychiatry but he sounds like a pretty fuckin’ good therapist too.

“Sam’s a good guy,” he says.

“Sam’s my best friend,” Steve answers. “He saved my life.”

James looks at him, searches his face, and then rubs his cheek against Steve’s shoulder in lieu of a makeout session.

“So what did your doctor tell you?” he asks. “If you wanna tell me.”

Steve breathes for a moment or two against James’ skull, maybe he’s smelling James’ hair, it’s hard to tell. Then he nuzzles James’ cheek and presses a kiss to his temple, his ear, his neck.

“I love you,” he says, and James snorts.

“Weird thing for your Doctor to tell you,” he says, voice low because, if Sam’s giving them privacy, the last James can do is use it. 

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Steve says, and then changes tack completely. “My point is I know why I love you. That thing about therapists helping you decipher what you’re thinking already, changing how you go about understanding yourself? Well, so _my_ therapist - his name is Doctor Singh and he’s fantastic at his job, by the way - asked me if I thought I was looking for a substitute in dating you. A replacement. When I said no, he asked how I thought I knew.”

“And what did you say?” James asks, and Steve pulls back to look at him.

“I said nobody could ever take Bucky’s place,” he says. “That’s one of the ways I know I love you for you. Because you’re not him, but I don’t spend every waking moment wishing you were. I spent years missing him, James, I loved him for a very large portion of my life before he died, with all the love I had. But you…”

James searches Steve’s face, and Steve sits up a little more.

“If I asked you to style your hair a certain way, if I bought you clothes I thought would suit you, you’d probably do it for me, right? You’d certainly wear the clothes.”

“I’d think about it,” James says. “You mean if you wanted me to try and grow a beard?”

“I mean if I bought you a blue pea-coat and asked you to tie your hair back all the time. Right? Obviously I’d’ve been more subtle about it if that’s what I wanted, but I could have found a way to ask you to look like him. And if I’d been more subtle about it, I’m sure you’d’ve done it, right? Same as if you told me you liked me in a shirt.”

James, stunned, just stares.

“You…” he says eventually. “Want me to…?”

“No,” Steve says. “That’s my point. I’ve thought about it, of course I have. But not like that - I’ve never looked at you and thought how much better you’d look in wider pants or a different shirt, how I could pomade your bangs or give you a new tie. I’ve thought about you in a different time, but I’ve done that with everyone. Pictured Sam in a flat cap and suspenders. Pictured Peggy in a McQueen evening gown. I’ve thought about you workin’ down the docks same as I’ve thought about Bucky workin’ HR at SI, but I’m not in love with you ‘cause you’re a replacement for him. You’re two different people and I love you differently than I love him.”

“I know that,” James says. “I know you love me for me.” Although it’s nice to hear it.

“Yeah but what I need you to know now,” Steve tells him, “is that this happens sometimes. It will happen. Some days it’ll be better than this, some days worse. I’m gonna have bad dreams and bad times, I’m gonna run into things that push me back a step when I walk forward two. I’m gonna wake up in the middle of the night and forget where I am, forget who you are. I’m gonna get shot, I’m gonna do dangerous things ‘cause it’s my job, and I’m gonna wind up with my depression and anxiety gettin’ too big sometimes and it’s...I just…I want you to know that having a bad day and mistaking you for someone else doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. I called Nat Peggy once, I’ve been telling stories about my boys, my team, and wound up callin’ ‘em by Avengers’ names by accident. It happens.”

“I have bad days sometimes, too,” James says. “Not with PTSD, like, I wasn’t in a war. But you didn’t leave when I got upset about my family being dicks. And this is like…” James thinks about it for a minute. “Like, it’s like being bilingual, right? Where sometimes you forget the English word? Or you can’t remember the word in the other language. Right? You’ve led two lives - French ain’t your first language, the twenty-twenties ain’t your first habitat. Right?”

Steve’s mouth curls at one corner, such a gentle expression on his face, such warmth in his eyes.

“Oh, I love you,” Steve says, kisses him softly. “Yeah, that exactly. And I might be a little funny for a little while-”

“You mean you ain’t funny all the ti-”

Steve tickles him - just a short jab in the side that makes him yelp but it gets his point across. And, more to the point, Steve’s smiles enough that he’s actually showing teeth as he gets in James’ personal space, getting him up against the back corner of the couch, planting his hands either side of James’ hips.

“I love you,” he says. “I hate that I’m forty-two and emotionally traumatized, but I love you.”

James slings his arms over Steve’s shoulders.

“What a coincidence,” James says, and Steve gets really close, kisses him briefly, kind of nuzzles and hovers at him and then kisses him again, chuckles softly, starts to indicate he might want to get handsy.

“Oh look who’s back,” Sam says as he walks past, and Steve pulls back and rolls his eyes again, so hard that all James sees is the whites of his corneas, eyelashes of one eye fluttering as the muscles strain.

James snorts directly into Steve’s face, and Steve honest-to-god giggles before he pushes himself upright, tugging James back up against him once he’s settled. James shoves one arm between Steve’s back and the couch, and slides the other over Steve’s stomach again. Steve squeezes James around the shoulders with his one arm, covers James’ hand on his stomach with his other hand, runs his fingers over James’ wrist - there is no mark, no indication there ever was one.

“Feelin’ better?” Sam asks, sitting down again, and Steve nods, glances at James, and then seems somehow to settle.

“Yeah,” he says, the line a little lighter between his eyes, his body a little less tense, his voice a little less dark. “Think I’m gettin’ there.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes! I know what Steve's nightmare was really about - I'm not just fobbing you off, there's a genuine story behind it. It's just not plot-relevant right now. (And I will warn for it if it ever becomes relevant)
> 
> Here is [a link to a timeline](https://66.media.tumblr.com/aac4be76b217f7b6ea54592e0a76d168/tumblr_inline_pg5mcewTA21rckout_500.png) if you'd like to know the dates of the occurrences in this fic up to part 10.


End file.
